Ill
by FrankaPhile
Summary: [Sixth Sense] The years before Kyra Collins got help from Cole Sear


I was sick for the better part of two years before I finally died. It's funny how people refer to dying as being 'at rest'. I was resting in bed whenever I got sick. I might as well have been dead right then. After my breakfast I would throw up and, if I was well enough to eat it, the same would happen after lunch. I hardly ever got around to eating dinner but my mother would still bring in a plate, smiling as I pushed the food around with my fork. She always treated me with kid gloves. I never thought that anything was wrong other than being very ill because of that.   
  
Ill. That's the word the doctors always used. My father went to six different doctors from three different hospitals and two different family practice offices. Just a second opinion was never enough. Every time I saw a new doctor they demanded the same things - blood work, CAT scans, CT scans, every sort of scan under the sun. All the while I was staying overnight in the hospital. By the time I was on my third doctor I'd gotten used to the scenery. The smell of rubbing alcohol and the sounds of truly sick children were permanently embedded in my nose, ears, and mind.   
  
Every once in awhile I got lucky. When I hadn't thrown up in a day, my mom and dad allowed me to invite friends over. If it was two days I was allowed to play in the yard. Either way, there wasn't much to do. I had dolls and a puppet theater in my room but the hospital bed and abundance of medical supplies kind of creeped my friends out. I had a swing set outside but my friends had me one-upped with their trampolines and other outdoor play equipment. Sometimes I think that they only came over to my house out of pity, but even if that's true I'm still grateful that they paid attention to me.   
  
After one year of being sick I dropped out of my school. It wasn't my decision. If it weren't for my mother insisting that I needed to stay at home with a tutor... She only came over when I was doing better than usual. I was very weak and found it difficult to pay attention. Math was especially hard. Maybe it was all psychological but focusing on the numbers made me dizzy. I missed being well so much. I even missed school. I was truly in bad shape.  
  
In my second year of poor health I was almost completely bed-ridden. I didn't feel well at all but I still wanted to be outside, swinging on the swing set and laughing with my friends. My mother practically outlawed talking on the phone. She was always saying that I was too sick to do this and too sick to do that. Oftentimes I thought that she wanted me to be sick but I always shrugged that thought off. She was my mother, after all, and she seemed to be doing her best to help me get well.   
  
There's not much to say about my death. As I said before I might as well have been dead when I was stuck lying in bed with my dish that I used to throw up in. It wasn't living; It was only existing. My heart stopped and I was laid out on my bedroom floor as paramedics tried to resuscitate me. Even after a half hour I couldn't be saved. It was almost as if I'd stepped out of my body when I died. I could see my mother staring in shock, no trace of tears in her eyes, and I saw my father sobbing. My little sister, Tiffany, was just waking up. She only came into my room after my body had been taken out. I wanted to hide her eyes and protect her from all that was going on but, as it turns out, when you're a ghost you're practically invisible. Only a select few can see you and none of my family had that gift.   
  
When I didn't feel any change I could tell that something was wrong. I had heard ghost stories before about people who couldn't go to heaven because they needed to seek vengeance. I just didn't know what to do to get my vengeance. Who had wronged me? What had gone on? I didn't know at the time. That was before I saw my mother with her bottle of Nu-Rug. Floor cleaner is obviously poison when it's eaten. That's why I was so shocked to see her slipping a little bit of it into my sister's food. After a few meals Tiffany started to develop the same symptoms I'd had when I was still alive. I knew, then, why I had died. What I needed to do was expose my mother and all that she'd done. 


End file.
